


to have and to hold

by silklace



Series: out of a little, dark room series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Generation Relationship, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, OotP Era, Sex Pollen, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 21:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: “What is it? You’ve got a fever?”Harry’s eyes were bright, and he nodded jerkily. “Yes,” he said, faintly listing, looking frantically but anywhere at Sirius. “That’s it – a, a fever, I’ve got to, I’ve got to –”





	to have and to hold

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes it's 2019 and you can't stop thinking about your OTP from a decade ago, who knew!
> 
> This is tagged as dubious consent because of the nature of the relationship, Harry’s age, and the circumstances of the sexual encounter, but there is absolutely desire on both ends. The Implied/Referenced Rape/Non Con tag is used in reference to a background character, not the main pairing. 
> 
> I listened to Vancouver Sleep Clinic’s Killing Me To Love You on repeat while writing this fic, so apologies to them for that.
> 
> Please feel free to message me if you have questions about any of the tags/content warnings.
> 
> Enormous and endless thanks to [Kisatsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel) for Brit-picking. The remaining mistakes are my own, she did her best with me. <3

_"Well," said Mrs Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that did not come, "well ... I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart -"_

_"He's not your son," said Sirius quietly._

_"He's as good as," said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. "Who else has he got?"_

_"He's got me!"_

_"Yes," said Mrs Weasley, her lip curling, "the thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?"_

_\- Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, JK Rowling_

 

 

“Haven’t I already promised not to stay down here all night brooding and drink -,” Sirius paused. The house settled with a creaky laugh, and a log snapped in the fireplace. Sirius huffed a half-noise of amusement, though there wasn’t really anything funny about being caught sulking in your childhood home by your 15-year-old godson. “You’re not Moony.”

“Thirsty,” Harry said – only it was more like a rasp, rough and cracked all the way through. He was wearing striped pyjama bottoms and a shirt too many sizes too big. It gaped around his neck, exposing the arch of his collarbones, delicate in a way that hurt to look at.

Sirius pushed his glass away from him with one finger. It made a grinding noise on the pocked table. When he was a child, the mahogany had gleamed, polished so finely that Sirius could watch his own ghostly reflection in it between courses. Of course, it had also resided in the high-arched dining room, been set with bone-fine china, and had not played host to a myriad of blood-traitors and half-breeds.

“Ah.” He pulled a grin, rueful, even though Harry wasn’t looking at him. “Thought you were Remus.”

Harry nodded, jerkily, stumbling forward like he was only half-awake or half-listening. He was so thin the wings of his shoulder blades were visible through his sleep shirt.

“Right.” He grabbed for the tumbler and swallowed the rest of the whiskey back. No sense in pretending, then, that he wasn’t down here brooding and drinking, and Harry resented being treated like a child, anyway, even though he was one, and Sirius knew it, didn’t even believe half the shit Molly goaded him into saying in the first place.

There was the sound of glass shattering on the flagstone. “Fuck,” Harry swore, voice wet with it.

He almost laughed – Harry never swore in front of him – but it died in his chest before it had a chance to form. He pushed away from the table. “Don’t worry about it,” he said coarsely, because Harry was looking down at the shattered glass with some trepidation.

“Are you okay?” Harry was all in shadow; the light from the dwindling fire didn’t reach him. “Harry?”

“No,” Harry said. “I mean – yes, fine.” It sounded like he was talking through his teeth. “I don’t. Something’s – something’s wrong,” he said, and Sirius felt it in his throat.

“You’re poorly?” Sirius was crossing to him before he had time to decide to do it. “What is it?”

“I. I don’t -,” Harry said, shaking his head like he didn’t understand the question. Or like it hurt to talk.

It wouldn’t be – it’d be perfectly normal for a godfather to touch his godson, especially when he was sick or in pain or confused; it would be fine – completely ordinary for Sirius to reach out and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder or the back of his neck, where Sirius could see now, up close, that his hairline was dark with sweat; or to cuff his chin, get him to look up so Sirius could have a proper look at his face.

His hands clenched at his sides.

“I’m -,” Harry said, clipped and ending in a whine. His face screwed up, like he was in pain. He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Let me -,” Sirius muttered.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re ill – or something,” Sirius grunted, broken glass grinding underfoot as he edged closer. “It’s alright –”

He skimmed three of his fingers along the back of Harry’s bicep, barely a touch at all, and Harry flinched away so violently he knocked the pitcher off the counter, where it joined the glass below. Harry didn’t even make an attempt to rescue it, still staring wildly at some point past Sirius’ shoulder.

“Hell, you really are sick,” Sirius muttered. “Reflexes all shot, huh, kiddo?”

He intended to sound reassuring, soft, but Harry was trembling, mouth a wretched, open shape. “I can’t -,” he ground out. He tensed like he was ready to bolt, and Sirius circled a hand around his wrist, ignoring the dull whine Harry made at the touch.

If he’d known this was how his night was going to end up, he might have stopped drinking a couple of fingers of whiskey ago. Harry moaned in the back of his throat, like the touch of Sirius’ fingers was overstimulation on its own.

Well. Perhaps not.

“Watch your feet.” Sirius had left his wand on the table, and there was glass everywhere. He still had his boots on, but Harry was barefooted. Sirius could see his toes peeking out from the overlong cuff of his bottoms.

“Harry, watch your -,” but Harry wasn’t listening at all, starting to tug his way out of Sirius’ grip, feverish-like, and before Sirius could overthink it, he was hefting Harry by the hips and depositing him on the countertop.

“God,” Harry whispered, “Oh, god.” He buried his face in his hands, thin shoulders heaving.

“Tell me,” Sirius said, voice low.

By some miracle or hand of fate, the sounds of shattering glass hadn’t yet woken a house full of war survivors and rebel fighters. He would prefer it stayed that way because – well, Harry was obviously upset. He’d hate an audience for – whatever this was.

That was why. That was the reason Sirius didn’t want anyone to come down, not right now, not when Harry’s thin wrist was trembling in Sirius’ grip, his skin almost blistering with heat.

“What is it? You’ve got a fever?”

Harry’s eyes were bright, and he nodded jerkily. “Yes,” he said, faintly listing, looking frantically but anywhere at Sirius. “That’s it – a, a fever, I’ve got to, I’ve got to –”

“Hold on – just. Harry -,” he pressed a hand to Harry’s belly to stop him from wriggling away and Harry cried out, going tense – tenser – all over. “Did that – are you in pain?”

Harry nodded, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. He looked like he wanted to wrap his arms around himself, if Sirius didn’t have his wrist in one hand, his other hand pressed to the warm, soft center of Harry’s belly.

“Hurts,” Harry choked out, finally letting Sirius tip his chin up. His pupils were blown wide, and there was a bright, hectic flush on his cheekbones and across his nose.

“Where’s it hurt?”

Harry finally tugged away from his grip, shoving his face back in his hands and squirming again like he meant to roll over onto the counter and wriggle his way to freedom, determined and blazing even as he was panting with the pain of whatever was roiling through him.

“Christ, Harry -,” Sirius grunted, “Just – hold still.” He didn’t, long, boy-ish limbs flying. Sirius couldn’t find anywhere to get a grip on him; he was all pointed elbows and vulnerable belly. “I’ll just -,” he said, and he meant to explain _I’ll just go and get Molly_ but instead he pushed Harry back, wordlessly, and felt Harry’s cock, hard and straining at his pajama bottoms, rub against the length of his forearm.

Oh.

Harry made a noise not unlike an animal, keening.

“It’s alright,” Sirius said, casually. “It’s -. It’s nothing.” Harry was – a teenager. It wasn’t, it didn’t mean – anything.

“Something - something’s _wrong_ ,” Harry said wildly, voice hoarse like he’d been screaming. “I can’t –”

“You’re ill, you’re just -,” Sirius said, looking over his shoulder, willing his wand into his fingers. “You’re – not well,” he insisted, while Harry writhed around on the countertop. “Let me call for help -”

“No,” Harry yelped, “don’t, don’t go.”

Sirius stilled. “A minute ago, you were pushing me away,” he pointed out. Harry clutched the front of his robes and shoved his face against Sirius’ chest. Sirius did not move.

He could see out of the corner of his vision, just beyond the mess of Harry’s hair, the way the firelight was throwing dark shapes around the room. The house had a way of playing tricks on him.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry said again, only this time he sounded like he was starting to tire himself out, voice gone slurry and petulant.

“It’s just – a fever,” Sirius said hopefully, even as Harry shook his head and moaned against his chest. His hot little mouth was open, and Sirius could feel the warmth of his breath through his robes.

“I think,” Harry said, rubbing his forehead back and forth along Sirius’ chest like it hurt to think, speaking like every word cost him something, though Sirius didn’t know what, “I got something on me. From. Earlier – in one of the bedrooms.”

“Something?” Sirius’ voice was sharp. He swallowed. “You can tell me,” he added, softer.

When Harry just shuddered, panting wetly, Sirius prompted him. “From when you were cleaning, you mean?”

Harry didn’t so much nod as exhale his affirmation, a shuddery little noise of regret and bafflement.

“Fuck,” Sirius swore softly, mostly to himself. Then to Harry, he said, “There are – evil things in this house. Things that could hurt you. You’ve got to be – careful.”

“Hurts,” Harry whimpered, and then, softer than anything else, like he was trying not to say it: “Please.”

Sirius took a breath.

“I don’t – I’ll get Molly -,” Harry groaned wretchedly, “ – alright, I’ll get Moony –,” Harry made a desperate noise, “– it’ll be – it’ll be fine, Harry, it’s nothing – and then they’ll take you to Mungo’s, alright?”

And Harry, who never asked for anything ever, said, “Make it better.”

Sirius looked upwards, at the dark recesses of the vaulted kitchen ceiling. It was all exposed beams down here, since it was only ever meant for the house elves to see. Something sharp caught in his throat.

“I - ,” _can’t_ , said a traitorous voice in his head. Out loud, he said, “don’t know how.”

“You do,” Harry spat, betrayed. “I know you do.” He was finally looking at Sirius, sharp little face twisted in something that walked hand in hand with agony and longing.

“Let me get. someone your age - Ron, or -,” Sirius said, quietly.

“I don’t want him,” Harry hissed, cheeks so flushed they were burgundy hued.

“Harry.”

“I want -,” Harry licked his lips, and to Sirius’ horror, his eyes flicked down to Sirius’ mouth. “Not Ron,” he finished lamely. Then he tugged his shirt off, one handed, the other still fisted in Sirius’ robes.

“Don’t -,” Sirius said, gently, trying to fit the shirt back over him. Harry’s hair was a whirlwind.

“Please,” Harry begged, voice tipping into frantic again. “I can’t – it _hurts_ , Sirius, please -”

“God,” Sirius breathed, because it felt like a knife inserted sweetly between his ribs, watching Harry like this. “I _can’t_.”

“You can,” Harry insisted, voice somewhere between permissive and betrayed, like he wasn’t sure which tact to take. _To get what he wants_ , said that same traitorous voice, the one that hissed that he was a Black, through and through, something rotten in his core no matter how many years he spent curled up on the floor of an Azkaban cell, repenting.

“You can,” Harry said again, voice hitching under the sweep of Sirius’ gaze along his sternum, the flushed arch of his throat. “I want it, I want you to – to touch me.” His voice cracked open along the word. He looked miserable.

“You’ve been – dosed with something,” Sirius told him, remembering, unbidden, Marlene’s face after they’d flushed out a particularly nasty nest of Death Eaters, in the days when the war dragged on endlessly and they were all worn thin and ragged and Remus had stopped coming around. Marlene had been the only prisoner left alive and there’d been blood between her legs when they’d found her. Sirius had looked at her, and she’d set her jaw, a brief flash of confusion on her face before it was swallowed away, and said, “I wanted it,” and that had been that.

“I imagine they find it amusing,” Lily had said later, voice like steel, when Sirius had swallowed back too much whiskey in their kitchen. “To beg for your own torture,” and then she’d scooped Harry up and pressed her face against his, nose tucked into the chubby curve of his cheek, like she meant to breathe him in and keep all the warm, golden bits of him inside of herself to stave off the terror. By the look on her face, gone soft with raw contentment, he’d imagined it had, for the moment, at least.

He bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted metal. He thought the dementors had taken that memory, too, but he supposed it wasn’t exactly a happy one.

Now, Harry was blinking up at him, shivering, sliding his foot up the back of Sirius’ thigh, and he still looked like he was something spun from gold and goodness.

“Please,” Harry said again, voice wretched, “I can – I’ll do whatever you want, you can,” and his voice was soft and breathy but had edged into babbling, “I want it, I do, please, and I can – I can use my mouth, if you want -”

Sirius fit his palm over that mouth before he could think better of it, and Harry’s eyes went wide and cornered.

“Please don’t say that,” Sirius told him, and he couldn’t remember the last time his voice had sounded so tender. “Please, Harry.”

He swiped his thumb along the curve of Harry’s jaw, rested it against the flutter of his pulse, unnaturally quick. He radiated warmth, and Sirius had a sudden, heady desire to stick his nose under Harry’s arm and lick until the boy’s prick was dripping on his belly.

He inhaled sharply, feeling a shock of horror at himself. Maybe he would go mad in this house, after all.

Harry was watching him with dark eyes, and he hadn’t even tried to take Sirius’ hand away from his mouth, which was the worst part, after all.

“Will you – will you be quiet for me?” He stroked the soft skin behind Harry’s ear, watching his eyes flutter in pleasure. Harry nodded. He also flexed his ankle, hitching it higher so that his leg was curled around Sirius’ hip, foot digging into his arse.

He removed his hand, and Harry bit his lip, as if to keep himself from speaking. Sirius almost smiled, but he didn’t.

He stroked behind Harry’s ear again. “Stay here, okay?” Harry’s eyes went wide and panicked. “I’m not -,” Sirius took a steadying breath. “I’m not leaving. I’m just going to get my wand, okay? Don’t move.”

He strode over to the table, snatching his wand up and spelling the door locked. He added an impenetrable spell, as well, and when he turned, he wasn’t truly surprised that Harry was there in front of him, pushing him to sit back on the bench and clambering gracelessly into his lap.

“I -,” Harry said, biting the rest of the words off in a gasp when Sirius’ hands came up to his hips.

Sirius touched his arse, cupped it, held him steady where he was shuddering and gripping Sirius’ shoulders in a white-knuckled sort of way that made Sirius want to set fire to the house and watch it turn to ash.

“Did the glass get you?” He tried to crane a look at Harry’s feet, but Harry made an impatient noise.

“Fuck the glass,” he spat, voice catching on the f of the fuck, like he was rolling the word in his mouth, all sharp pleasure and sneering, bitter anger.

“Big lad,” Sirius said soothingly. “Is that it?” He gripped Harry by the thighs and stood, tipping him back on the table as Harry made a shocked, guttural sound of want. “Big, brave lad, huh? All bluster and bravado, not afraid at all,” Sirius said, and when Harry pointed his chin defiantly, Sirius kissed it.

Harry made another one of those shocked noises, but this one was unraveling around the edges.

Sirius put his face, briefly, against the hot skin of Harry’s chest, shut his eyes so that it was just blackness and heat and nothing else – thinking that he would like to stay there for a little longer, enveloped in the smell and warmth of Harry and nothing else, but then Harry was jolting up against him, rolling his hips in an obvious gesture, awkward and unnatural though it was on his teenaged body.

“Alright,” Sirius said, voice quiet, and Harry hissed, “Fuck me.”

“You’re okay.” Sirius touched his temple, swept his thumb over the scar on his forehead.

Harry’s eyes went shiny in a new kind of way.

“Put your cock in me,” he bit out, looking murderous.

Sirius’ throat felt tight and hot, but he hadn’t cried since the first year in Azkaban. Then, he used to have nightmares where the dementors would hold him down, scabby hands on his ankles and wrists, and gently, precisely scoop his eyes from their sockets, one by one.

But eventually those dreams stopped as well.

Now, Sirius used his free hand to run blunt nails softly across Harry’s chest. Harry was flushed from forehead to sternum, and his nipples were pink buds, rosy and tight. Sirius flicked one with his thumb and Harry arched, desperation clawing its way out his throat.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Sirius promised, and that was – true. He would. It was the only thing that really mattered, protecting Harry.

Chest heaving, Harry glared at Sirius, eyes nearly black. “You want me to beg, is that it? You like it – you liked it.” He clawed at Sirius’ bicep, urging him closer, until his hard prick was nudging against the curve of Harry’s arse. Harry looked away, swallowing, then flicked his gaze back to Sirius. “I’m – made for your cock, I belong on it, it’s the only thing I’m good for -”

“Don’t,” Sirius said, gently, and he reached down and took Harry’s hand. He kissed the palm, the join of his thumb, each of his four fingers. “I know, love.”

“Please,” Harry said, voice breaking open. “I’m -,” and then his face went soft and wretched again. “It - _hurts_.”

“You don’t have to be – you don’t have to pretend,” Sirius told him, running his hand down the sweep of Harry’s stomach, a little bowl-shaped from a summer at Privet Drive. He tugged at Harry’s belly button with his thumb, making him gasp, trying not to think about the way Harry came back from the summers looking underfed and flat-eyed, how it took weeks of Molly’s cooking and Ron and Hermione’s affection for it to go away.

He bent and kissed Harry’s knee, where it was folded up against Sirius’ side, holding him close. “I know you’re frightened.”

“I’m not,” Harry said acidly. He wouldn’t look at Sirius. He rolled his hips, rubbing his arse against Sirius’ erection and throwing his arm over his face. “I can’t -”

Sirius rested his hands on the waistband of Harry’s pyjamas. “I’m going to take these off now, okay?” His voice didn’t even shake at all as he said it. Hardly at all.

Harry’s breath hitched. He nodded from behind the hinge of his elbow, then leveraged himself up to watch. He narrowed his eyes at Sirius. “Fucking finally.”

“Alright, Harry,” Sirius said, and fit his thumbs under the waistband to peel the trousers down his thighs.

“Oh,” Harry said, in this half-relieved, half-surprised kind of way. His cock was so hard it looked painful – foreskin pulled back on its own and the head flushed burgundy to match the color on his cheeks. His balls were pulled up tight to the base of his cock. Sirius wanted to bury his face there and breathe in the musky, sweet, boyish smell of him.

He wrapped his hand around him, instead. Harry’s cock fit neatly in his fist, and he squeezed gently, rubbing his thumb under the head. “Tell me if you don’t like something, okay?”

Harry gasped, dropping backwards. His fingers were claws against the table.

“Harry,” Sirius said, and he hinged forward to kiss the jut of his chin again, to nose gently against the side of his throat. “Harry, love, you can –,” but when Harry made a pathetic noise, shuddering and turning his face away even while he moved his hips into the fuck of Sirius’ fist, Sirius stopped.

“Alright,” he said, voice neutral, and moved as if to straighten.

Harry caught him around the shoulders. “Don’t,” he said, mouth a small, tight shape. Sirius wanted to kiss it.

He didn’t.

“I won’t,” he said, instead, and pressed his face to Harry’s throat again, breathing him in. He smelled like sleep and boy-warmth and, already, a bit like the dust that collected everywhere in Grimmauld Place. Sirius bit back a growl and licked the tendon in Harry’s neck.

Harry made a soft noise, fingers flexing tentatively against his shoulders.

He’d been worried he’d have to conjure lubricant or improvise with cooking oil, but Harry’s prick was leaking. Sirius spread it around with the pad of his thumb on each upstroke until Harry was slick with it, until the kitchen was full of the sounds of Harry’s harsh panting and the soft, wet noise of Sirius stroking his cock.

He leant back after a minute. “Alright?” Harry was rocking into it, but there was a line etched between his brows.

Harry bit his lip. “It’s -,” he threw his arm over his face again. “Not enough.”

Of course. The Death Eaters would have found it a particularly hilarious gesture, humiliation laced over indignity, to have their victims beg not just for physical orgasm, but for the act of penetration. He should have expected it.

The voice in his head hissed that perhaps he had been expecting it.

“Ah,” Sirius said, hand stilling on Harry’s prick. Harry made a frustrated noise, then shimmied his pajama bottoms off the rest of the way and pulled his legs up. “I need it,” he said, hoarsely. He cocked his thighs open, exposing himself.

“Who taught you that?”

He had tried to keep his voice even. Harry still flinched.

“No,” Sirius said, gentling his hand along Harry’s hip. “I didn’t mean -.” He kissed the side of Harry’s face. “You’ve not done anything wrong.”

“Are you going to –”

“Yes,” Sirius said, cutting him off, not wanting him to have to ask for it again.

Harry spread his thighs a little wider. “Will it hurt?”

“God,” Sirius choked - it was bitterness all the way through, even this. “Not – not with the right person,” he finally said, and that was true, wasn’t it. He hadn’t lied to Harry, not once, and he didn’t intend to start tonight.

Sirius conjured the lubricant, after all. “I’ll show you that spell,” he promised, “if you want. When you’re not off your head.”

“I’m not -,” Harry said hotly, and then his eyes rolled back and he gasped when Sirius pressed a wet finger to his hole. “Oh,” he breathed, and Sirius circled the finger, letting him get used to the feeling of being touched there, petting gently at the soft, wrinkled skin. He nudged the tip of his finger inside and Harry’s legs twitched. “ _Oh_.”

The horror of it, of course, was that if he went too quickly, he could hurt Harry, but the slower he went, the further he prolonged the effects of the poison.

Still, when Harry started to look like he was going to ask for more, Sirius met the rise of his seeking hips and pushed his finger inside of him in one long slow thrust.

“Shouldn’t have to ask for it,” he muttered, and Harry looked around wildly, saying, “What?”

“Breathe,” Sirius told him. Then, before he could bite his tongue: “You feel good.”

“Oh.”

Sirius tried to smile, but Harry wasn’t watching him. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, wanting him to understand. He curled his index finger up and rubbed the knuckle against the grasping cling of Harry’s hole. “Yeah, I’m gonna give you more,” he promised, when Harry made a piteous noise. “Just wait for it.”

“Can’t -,” Harry said, sucking in a breath. “I – oh, it’s too -”

Sirius kissed his sternum, licked up his neck. He pulled his finger almost all the way out and then fed two into the tight, gasping heat of Harry’s arse. “I know,” he murmured, “You’re doing so well.” Harry’s mouth went loose and unhappy. “I mean it,” Sirius insisted. “You’re taking it – beautifully,” and he twisted his wrist, letting Harry feel the fuck of his fingers, searching and pressing gently until –

“Shit,” Harry hissed, “Oh, god, don’t stop, don’t -”

“I’m not going to,” Sirius assured him, moving his other fist on Harry’s cock again. It was leaking all over Harry’s belly, a smear of wetness on his skin that Sirius leaned down and chased with his tongue before he could help himself.

Harry jerked under him, hands threading into Sirius’ hair, and Sirius stilled for a moment, waiting to see – and then Harry did; pushed Sirius’ face towards his cock and Sirius swallowed him in one long, hot motion, from root to tip, bobbing his head once, then twice, letting the pink head graze the back of his throat, the soft sides of his cheeks, the tang of precum delicious on his tongue, and he sucked and swallowed and hollowed his cheeks while Harry _mewled,_ trembling from head to foot, and when Sirius pulled his fingers out and shoved them back in at the same time that he chased the head of Harry’s cock with his tongue, Harry came, back arching like he was being tortured.

Sirius swallowed him through it, then used his mouth to clean him up, licking him roughly until Harry’s foot twitched in overstimulation. He moved his mouth to Harry’s hole, still stretched open on his fingers, and tongued it gently as he removed them.

“Sirius,” Harry moaned, half agony, half embarrassment. Sirius gave his reddened little hole one last comforting lick, then straightened.

The unnatural flush from the potion – poison, he thought flatly - was already starting to recede from Harry’s throat and chest. He was not shaking anymore, either, and his skin felt warm but not overheated.

He looked recently fucked.

Sirius swallowed. “Alright?”

Harry bit his lip, looking at the ceiling.

“Let me just get your -,” he said. Harry’s bottoms were pooled near their feet, his tee-shirt over on the counter top. He grabbed them both. Harry was sitting up on the bench when he turned around, arms wrapped around himself. He looked jagged all over, made of elbows and knees and fury.

Sirius knelt at his feet. Harry choked and looked away.

“I’m sure you don’t want to be anywhere near me right now,” Sirius said, voice neutral, as if he was reading a broom-maintenance manual. “I understand that -,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “If you need anything, I’m –“

Harry’s voice was raw, explosive. “It’s my fault! I – I’m sorry, I’m so – fuck.” He shoved his face into his hands, took a long, deep breath like he was trying to steady himself, and then emerged and looked at a point over Sirius’ shoulder. “I understand if you never want to - to see me again.”

Sirius could almost laugh, if any of this were funny. “Harry. It’s – it’s not your fault.” Christ. “Come here, get your clothes on. You’re shivering.”

Harry let him help pull on his bottoms, but when Sirius went to pull the shirt over his head, he seemed to shake himself from some reverie. “I can do it,” he said dully, taking the shirt from Sirius’ hands.

“I know you can,” Sirius said quietly. He unfolded from his knees and sat on a nearby chair, studying his hands.

When Harry was dressed, he looked around the kitchen. “I -.” He stood abruptly. “I guess I should – go back to bed now.” He made a stilted step towards the doorway.

“Harry.”

“What?”

He tried to imagine it - sending his godson, prick still wet and arse recently fucked, back to his own narrow bed, sliding between cold sheets, trying not to wake Ron or anyone else, blinking up at the dark ceiling in this evil, evil house -

“You can stay with me, tonight. If you want.”

“Oh.”

“If you want,” Sirius said again.

Harry swallowed. “I – alright.”

+++

Upstairs, Harry looked at the bed, twisting his tee-shirt hem between his fingers.

“If you’d be more comfortable in your own -,” Sirius tried, gently, but Harry said quickly, “No, I mean, only if you don’t want me here -,” so Sirius had taken him by the wrist and pushed him easily into bed, shucking his robes while Harry pretended not to watch, then crawling in after him.

Harry lay flat on his back, eyes blinking up at the ceiling. Sirius used his wand to light the candle on his bedside table, and Harry’s face was washed in golden light again.

Sirius took a breath. “It’s okay to be angry –”

“I’m not angry,” Harry said obstinately.

“ – be angry with me or the universe, or hell, anything.”

“I -,” Harry bit his lip. Sirius had never realized how much he did it, before tonight.

He sighed. “I can’t imagine you’d hoped your first fuck would be with an old man, while you were doped out of your mind.”

Harry tugged the blankets up to his chin. He didn’t say anything for a long minute, then licked his lips. “I did imagine it would be with you, though,” he said, shoulder lifting in a half-shrug, not looking at Sirius.

“That’s – it happens,” Sirius said, like they were talking about the weather.

Harry heaved a great, shuddering sigh, mouth set like he was confessing. “I did, though – I. When I woke up, and knew something was – not right,” he said, stilted, “I did – go looking for you. I wanted,” he pressed his lips into a thin line, then seemed to force himself to say, “to find you. For it to be you.” He breathed quickly through his mouth, like he was trying not to cry. “I’m sorry.”

One day, maybe, Sirius will have the chance to say the same thing. To tell Harry that if it were up to him, he would have waited until Harry came to him, maybe in a few more years, clear-headed, and then he would have kissed him until he was gasping, and then he would have put his mouth all over him and taught him anything he didn’t already think he knew. Maybe the war would be over, and his own name pardoned; both of them a little bruised but learning to love the sunlight again, and Sirius would have pushed him against a wide, open window like the kind you couldn’t find anywhere in Grimmauld Place, and the white sunshine would make them squint and Sirius would kiss him and tell him yes, yes, yes for all the times he’d been told no.

He said, “Has anyone ever held you, Harry?”

Harry said nothing. After a minute, he rubbed a rough hand over his eyes.

Sirius murmured, “I thought – perhaps - ,” and guided him onto his side, sliding his arms around him. He put one hand on Harry’s head and stroked his temple.

A few moments later, when Harry let out a bright, anguished sigh, he realized he was rocking him gently.

“In the morning, I’ll wake you,” he told Harry quietly. “You can sleep, alright? I’ll wake you.”

“Okay,” Harry said. His voice was very small.

Sirius held him and watched the grey dawn sweep across his window, counting down the moments until he would have to wake Harry and let him go again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading; apologies for everything; I cherish and welcome your feedback and comments! <3


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